Callahan And McLane: Targeted Part 33

Scott was convinced she'd found the right man.

Until the day Mason had told him he wasn't coming back.

He held his cowboy hat in both hands, twisting it in front of him, and Scott instinctively knew the cop had something bad to tell him. He'd picked him up without coming in the house as usual. His mother had told him to ask Mason to stay for dinner. "He keeps promising he will," she'd said. "He needs to make good on that promise."

The man had taken him to a local arcade, bought him a soda, and asked him to sit down to talk.

Scott knew it was serious.

"I'm leaving the Cops 4 Kidz organization," he said. "I'm going to continue to help out at the main office, but I'm not going to go to kids' homes anymore." Mason looked him in the eye, and Scott knew he was lying.

"You don't want to visit us anymore," Scott said.

"That's not it. I have a family and my wife feels she never sees me and she's right. I work twelve-hour days and then spend my days off still doing things for my job. I need to make a change."

"You said you'd stay the full six months."

"I did and it kills me to go back on my word, but my wife is going to divorce me if I don't spend more time at home." There was a forced lightness in his tone. He lied. Scott knew he'd told his mother he wanted to leave his family to live with the two of them. He must have chickened out.

Or maybe he didn't like Scott.

His mom would be crushed. She'd already talked to Scott about how the three of them would go camping together, and how they could plan a wedding at the beach.

How dare he do this to his mother?

Mason was just like the rest of them. He looked away when Mason dropped him back at home. He wouldn't let the a.s.shole cop see him cry.

He didn't see Mason again until Scott's first Cops 4 Kidz board meeting. He'd nearly vomited as they'd shaken hands, but Mason didn't recognize him after all those years. Scott had changed his last name after college, wanting to distance himself from a father he'd never known.

He'd studied marketing and management in college. When he saw the opening for a director at the volunteer organization, he jumped on it. The appeal of the position that put him in a superior position over tons of cops was strong. The group had been a source of frustration for his mother and him for years. The salary was laughable, but he didn't care.

One board meeting, when he'd listened to two of the other members jokingly hara.s.s Mason Callahan about the new woman in his life, Scott had gathered the relations.h.i.+p was serious. Callahan had looked relaxed and happy instead of being his usual no-nonsense self.

Scott needed to crush that happiness. Callahan didn't deserve it.

Neither did any of the other men who'd played with his mother's mental and emotional health. They weren't ent.i.tled to joy.

A plan had formed in the back of his mind.

He'd encountered names and faces from his past in his new position. And he had their addresses . . . he knew their profiles.

They were primed for him to avenge the pain they'd caused his mother.

He created a goal and sketched out a timeline. He knew from his business cla.s.ses that every goal needed a plan of action and then a deadline to measure success. He picked Halloween for his deadline, liking the tie-in with his pa.s.sion for horror.

His first attempt had flopped.

It'd been strangely anticlimactic after his months of preparation and the intense rush of excitement that had started when he'd pressed his stun gun against Vance Weldon's neck. The rush had stuck with him until the next day, when he watched the news and there was no mention of the grisly suicide of an FBI agent. He'd combed the Internet looking for affirmation. Instead he'd been left wanting. As if it had never happened. Looking back, he realized he'd done it too perfectly. He'd staged a suicide and everyone had believed it. The cops, the EMTs, and the medical examiner. No newspapers, no television, no mention anywhere.

He corrected that the second time.

Tonight was to be his finale. The last man on his list would be checked off.

And he would do it in a style that would keep people talking for years.

His mother could rest in peace.

37.

"Wake up!"

"Wake up!"

A twisting, burning sensation in Mason's upper arm made his eyes jerk open as his body spasmed in pain. He tried to focus on Scott's face floating above him. The man was dressed in black, including a black hoodie that he'd pulled over his hair. His face was the only pale thing in the room. He stepped back for a fraction of a second and Mason glimpsed the knife in his hand, blood dripping from the tip.

That's what I felt in my arm.

A boot connected with Mason's ribs, and a red haze swamped his vision as he fought to stay conscious through the pain.

A hand yanked on his damaged arm. "Get up!"

Mason's legs fumbled to get underneath him as Scott pulled, and he realized his feet had been untied. His muscles refused to keep him upright and he lurched to one side, landing on an elbow.

His eyes squeezed closed at the pain.

"For f.u.c.k's sake! Get up!" Scott hauled on his arm again. Mason shakily stood, not trusting his legs and biting his lips to keep down the vomit that pushed up in the back of his throat.

"Barely walk," he croaked between clenched lips. "Legs not working."

"We're not going far," Scott said. He pressed his knife into Mason's ribs. "Just in case you're s.h.i.+tting me."

"Not," muttered Mason.

Scott pulled him to the door of the little shed and let go of his arm to open the door. Mason struggled to stay on his feet. He looked away as Scott's hand multiplied into four hands as he pushed open the door. The multi-vision made his stomach clench.

Running away was out of the question.

He stumbled through the dark as Scott steered him with a hand on the back of his arm. Mason lost track of their direction. They moved between fir trees and tripped through a field of pumpkin vines. Voices grew louder. Children's voices and the occasional speech of an adult. Scott stopped and tied a gag around his mouth. Mason concentrated on breathing around the foul-tasting cloth. Blood ran from his nose into his mouth and he struggled to spit it out. Instead a constant thread of drool oozed down his chin.

"Get down," Scott hissed in a hushed voice as he dropped to the ground and yanked Mason down with him. Mason twisted, landing on one shoulder, protecting his face somewhat. He panted as he tried to catch his breath, momentarily pleased that he was no longer upright. The loud chug of a tractor moved in their direction and the laughter of people grew louder.

The haunted hayride.

He turned his head, trying to see the tractor he knew was pulling a big trailer lined with hay. The forest was dark, the tractor's lights off to enhance the Halloween mood.

"Make a noise, and I'll start shooting. Kids first," Scott whispered in his ear.

Mason didn't doubt him, but he was incapable of making a sound. The vibrations from the big engine shook the ground. He simply lay still and listened as the ride pa.s.sed twenty yards away from their dark hiding spot, leaving them in the silent black woods again, and he remembered the dark ride with his son. A few minutes later Mason heard shrieks and screams and knew the ride had driven into a zombie horde or the interactive graveyard.

He put the thought of his son out of his head.

Ava. She'll figure out Scott Heuser is our man.

But would it be before or after he became Scott's next work of art?

Scott released his arm. "Don't f.u.c.king move."

I don't have much choice.

He heard Scott dash away, leaves and twigs crunching under his feet. A raspy sound of plastic sc.r.a.ping against plastic came from his direction.

Mason listened, straining his eyes to see in the dim light. Scott cursed as something made an abrupt cracking and splas.h.i.+ng noise.

An odd taste floated through the air and touched his lips. Mason blew through his nose, trying to clear the b.l.o.o.d.y blockage. Wet clumps flew out and splattered on the ground.

He carefully inhaled through his nose.

Gasoline.

Over the past month, Scott had stayed busy. He'd stashed his supplies in hidden caches on the farm next door. He'd watched the staff set up for the Halloween season, preparing its gory props and ramshackle buildings. The corn maze had been planted earlier in the year, and he'd memorized every twist and turn. He'd spent hours building his own devices, studying online tutorials, and downloading instruction manuals.

He was ready.

It would be a Halloween to remember.

Now to move his final piece into position.

Earlier in the week he'd tried to enter Mason's home, only to be screwed over by the presence of a dog. A really loud dog.

He'd had to regroup, but he always had a backup plan.

His backup plan had saved his a.s.s at Lucien's home, but as soon as he'd fired he'd known he had to leave.

It'd felt incomplete.

When the FBI had asked him for help in its investigation, his stress had increased along with his determination to finish his plan. He had to stay one step ahead.

He was so close.

He'd lost his breath when he saw Mason get out of his vehicle in front of his farmhouse. He'd given up on getting to the man before Halloween, and then he'd knocked on Scott's front door like a trick-or-treater.

Did Mason remember the last time he'd knocked on that door?

It'd been pitifully easy to walk up behind him with the stun gun. The sense of satisfaction as he saw the man drop to the ground had been beyond comparison.

Now the last symbol of his mother's pain was trussed at his feet. He'd originally planned for Lucien Fujioka to be the finale, but clearly Mason was meant to be. He'd been hand-delivered to his home, next door to the location where he'd dreamed to create the final spectacle.

Someone was watching out for him.

The haunted hayride chugged out of the forest, headed back to the farm store and main area to pick up its next load of children. He had a good fifteen minutes before it looped by again.

Would anyone on the next ride notice the addition to the scenery?

He hauled the detective to his feet. "This way." Mason stumbled and caught his balance. He turned his head, coughing and spitting.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up," he hissed.

Mason muttered something behind the gag.

The two of them floundered through the dark. He knew every path and gave a wide berth to the small shed where the group of zombies reconnoitered after every pa.s.s of the hayride. His goal was the gallows, a good fifty yards from the zombie village and past the graveyard.

The gallows were a couple of flimsy stands with a half-dozen hanging bodies. More bodies hung from the surrounding trees. He'd spent a few days reinforcing the second set of gallows. No one had noticed the added boards, nails, or rope.

Now it was capable of bearing the weight of a real body.

When will they notice?

The thought of the body hanging there for days put a spring in his step.

He'd set up enough distractions to confuse the owners, attendees, and investigators for a while.

Who'll be the lucky fellow to come across my big secret?

A laugh burst out of him and he struggled to be quiet. Next to him Mason tripped over a tree root and fell to his knees. The detective groaned as Scott jerked up his arm to get him moving again. Their timeline was tight.

Another hundred feet to the gallows.

38.

Ava turned into the long driveway in rural Was.h.i.+ngton County. The drive had taken much longer than she'd expected. An accident had clogged the freeway, and she'd sat for what felt like hours in the traffic, slowly inching forward. She'd nearly missed the driveway. A couple of tiny reflectors marked its position along the dark, narrow road.

Ahead, a vehicle was parked in front of the big white home. Bright outdoor lights lit up the grounds. Ava stopped her car, staring at the familiar back of the vehicle. She read the license plate three times and then picked up her phone and dialed Mason's phone number. Voice mail.